


Too Curious By Far

by Naopao



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Deer, Dragon Genji Shimada, Fauns & Satyrs, Faunyatta, Language Barrier, M/M, Magic, Mild Blood, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, this is gonna be a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-02-11 06:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naopao/pseuds/Naopao
Summary: Zenyatta, prince of the forest, finds a dragon in need of aid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fic series inspired by [russet-red's](http://russet-red.tumblr.com/) faunyatta AU!

An abundance of discord could kill, but an abundance of harmony could blind. It was one of Mondatta’s favorite recitations when Zenyatta, well-meaning but too curious by far, caused trouble. He heard it after he had climbed the tallest, most ancient tree in the forest to see if he could spot the forest’s edge, and again when he breathed magic into the spring buds too soon, causing a flood of pollen that threatened the timelines that Mondatta and their brethren followed so meticulously.  

Now, fully grown and a master in his own right, Zenyatta tempers his brash capriciousness and desire for knowledge with a veil of maturity. It is why he ignores his brother’s constant lectures and explores the borders of their lands, explaining to Mondatta the importance of knowing one’s boundaries, that lacking intimate knowledge of one’s home could be disastrous.

Zenyatta’s mapped nearly all of it, and the forest is a vast, living thing, one that he has studied and learned like the marks upon his brother’s face and the lines of his favorite runes, scrawled centuries ago by another, antlered master. However, unlike markings or writings, the forest is not unchanging. It grows, ebbing and flowing with the cycles of the sky and the life force of the beings that inhabited it. There is always something new to see, a sprout, a species or color. He catalogs them all, first with his eyes and then within the pages of stitched parchment, penned by hand when he has the time, but often he magics the words onto the pages with his whispers, quicker than a reed quill.

His explorations have led him to many curious places. The lair of the spider queen is one such area, only seen at a distance, the aura powerful and overwhelming. The forest is heavier there, not discordant, but a warning lies in its sensation, and Zenyatta grants it berth. Another is much less ominous, a small cottage at the edge of the northern wood, a tiny dwelling of stone and red tile. The windows are small with lacquered wood borders, and the curtains are always drawn.

However, Zenyatta had caught a glimpse of shifting gold during his last visit, a warm, strangely familiar color, as if he had seen it somewhere long ago.

Zenyatta’s journey leads him there in the wayward fashion he goes anywhere, taken by the small details, letting the scents and sights of the forest swell around him with the same comfort that a parent’s fur lends a fawn.

He spots the telltale smoke stacks through the gaps in the leaves. The gold he had seen through the window belonged to someone with long, flaxen hair, and their aura, while difficult to place, was kind, and he intends to introduce himself.

So distracted by his memory, he doesn’t notice the figure doubled over until he’s nearly upon him.

Green.

Blazing viridian scales erupt along the creature’s skin, bristling like fur. Bandages swath most of the figure, barely held in place by healing runes, some stained red, painting the dirt and grass. All but his eyes are hidden, and they burn with the same intensity as his skin, horns sprouting from his crown, furred tail whipping behind him, so much like—

Oh.

“A dragon.” Zenyatta whispers, and all at once the figure stills, the intensity of the dragon’s glare puffing Zenyatta’s fur.

Blood trails from behind the creature Zenyatta never thought he would meet; he had been dragging himself across the forest floor.

Zenyatta breathes out in a slow, even exhale, lowering his satchel to the ground. He keeps his hands raised, mind struggling to remember the words he had studied with such ferocity.

[...I am...Zenyatta.] He tries, forcing the air from his chest in a low, rumbling timbre. [I am peaceful.]

The dragon stares, unmoving, clutching the wound at his waist, blood dribbling between his fingers.

[Dangerous.] Zenyatta says as he takes a step closer, gesturing to the forest. [Creatures will smell the blood.]

Seconds pass in terse silence, the only sounds are the dragon’s labored breathing and the chirps of far off birds.

Then the dragon snorts with a derisive huff, shaking his head, though the motion makes him wince.

[Your accent is terrible.]

Zenyatta blinks. Then his smile lights up his face, all straight white teeth. He draws nearer, and the dragon bristles, pupils thinning to vertical slits.

[You smell like prey.] A labored breath. [What do you want?]

[To help.]

[And how do you propose to do that?]

Zenyatta kneels just out of arm’s reach; he doesn’t want to startle him when he touches one of the orbs circling his throat. It chimes and begins to glow, painting the deer’s hand in warm heat, hovering just above his palm.

[With magic.] Zenyatta smiles at the dragon’s widening eyes. [Are you afraid?]

[Hardly.] The dragon straightens, struggling to pull himself upright.

[Try not to move. You are bleeding quite heavily.]

Zenyatta shifts his hand forward, and the orb follows the motion, a slow, dream-like toss that breaches the space between them. The orb’s warmth extends, a ghostly hand that meets the dragon’s skin with a burst of memory: Genji in his youth, playing in the koi pond, the fish nibbling at his fingertips. He blinks, memory fading while peacefulness lingers, warm like slipping beneath the covers for another hour’s sleep. Each breath is easier, and though the deeper hurts don’t disappear, they soften.

When he finally looks up, the strange creature, hooved and tawny-skinned, is staring at him with russet eyes, a wan smile tugging his lips.

* * *

[It is an interesting feeling, is it not?] Zenyatta says.

The dragon frowns, but his anger subsides like his pain, slow but sure.

[I have not felt magic like this before.]

Zenyatta smiles wider, eyes thinning in his mirth.

[So you have experienced other magic. Wonderful!] Zenyatta shifts forward. [What should I call you?]

The dragon stammers, mouth shifting beneath the bandages.

[Genji.] He says with a single dip of his head.

Zenyatta leans close, and suddenly Genji’s vision fills with a bright smile. He didn’t notice his spattering of freckles and faded scars until now.

[Well met, Genji. Let me show you how my people greet each other.] He hesitates, pursing his lip in thought. [Your antlers...may I?]

Genji swallows, hoping the bandages cover the myriad of emotions that flash across his face. He nods, staring up at Zenyatta expectantly.

[Get on with it.]

The last of his words die as Zenyatta cups Genji’s face, his palms surprisingly rough, the pads of his fingers littered with callouses. He stiffens; Zenyatta is close enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts over his lips. Then their antlers connect, soft but firm.

Suddenly, the contact is gone, and Zenyatta gently maneuvers Genji’s arm over his shoulder.

[The texture of your antlers is quite different! It is nice.] Zenyatta says brightly. [I know it is soon, but we must try to move. My home is far from here.]

Zenyatta counts down aloud, but stands before he reaches zero. Genji is jostled from his reverie with newfound aches, but the orb keeps his mind cushioned and dull.

His antlers had been velvet soft, almost ticklish in their smoothness.

[What if I do not wish to go with you?] He mumbles.

[Have you somewhere better to be?]

Genji stares back the way he had come. It would be dark in a few hours. The forest is strange, claustrophobic compared to the empty expanse of sky. He did not know what monsters lurked. Perhaps it did not matter, but still the ember in his chest burns.

He cannot leave the earthly realm so soon.

Genji tries to walk on his own at first, but Zenyatta was right: their trip is a long one, slow and painful with the state of his body. The fading light makes each step more treacherous. Not once does Zenyatta complain; he only points out the trees, asks Genji if he’s ever tasted buckwheat honey or seen sakura in bloom, each word in stilted, pleasant dragon’s tongue.

He wants to ask Zenyatta how he even knows the language, why he isn’t terrified. Dragons were ancient enemies of the valley, even though the war between sky and land is long past. Even the woman who pulled him from the bramble had only a moment of fear before dragging him, slowly but surely, to her cottage, bandaged him while speaking softly in common.

Genji couldn’t understand her, didn’t want to understand her.

He ran.

His strange companion seems oblivious to it all, slowly quieting as they lose light. Colors begin to blur, each step dull and dream-like. He would be on the ground without Zenyatta’s shoulders, a constant, reassuring weight, even as he begins to tremble.

[Genji. Gen—

Greens and browns smear into darkness.

* * *

Mondatta is never surprised to find Zenyatta has gotten into trouble. He wanders too far, is too curious, though he dutifully performs his kata and meditation with a precision Mondatta wishes he could critique. That he can do so much and still find time to stir discord in such a peaceful place never fails to give him headaches.

So when the northernmost scouts bolt into the forest proper and alert Mondatta that the prince is not only worse for wear but carrying an outsider, he whispers a terse prayer and steps into the twilight dusk of the clearing.

He meets Zenyatta near the border of their village. A scout hovers at his side, but Zenyatta will not take her aid, and his brother’s stubbornness summons an irritation that only his own sibling can rile.

“Zenyatta—”

“Brother, prepare a bed. He is bleeding out.”

Mondatta bites his tongue when he sees the fear in the prince’s eyes. Within seconds he is in front of him, taking some of the weight of the heavily bandaged stranger, shorter than them both but heavy like a corpse.

He will lecture Zenyatta later. Now, he will help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little later than I would've liked, but here it is! Heavy world building again this chapter. Hopefully it'll be more fun and lighten up next chapter. :'))

****Genji awakens to the sound of heated whispering. When he opens his eyes, an orb hovers above him, soothing like walking barefoot on warm sand. His vision is soft around the edges, but the pain is a ghost of what it once was.

[Do not move.] A voice says in perfect dragon tongue, familiar but stern. [You are more injured than first estimated.]

Genji tilts his head to the side, vision spinning, and he groans. For a moment, there are two Zenyattas.

They both step forward: one of them lays his hand on Genji’s shoulder, examining him with wide, worried eyes. The other is taller, with startling blue eyes surrounded by gold markings.

[He seems to have stabilized. How do you feel?]

[As good as can be expected.] Genji manages, tongue feeling too large for his mouth. The way the taller one moves is beyond comparison. His stance, the gentle tilt of his shoulders, is fluid grace, otherworldly in a way that freezes him.

Zenyatta’s grip on his shoulder tightens, warm and rough. Genji stares at it, following the line of Zenyatta’s arm to his face, but he is not looking at him. The deer exchange words, but it’s not in any language Genji’s heard before, light and quick, the pitches lilting high one syllable and deep the next. Zenyatta repeats one word throughout, Mondatta, and he wonders faintly if its the other’s name.

Zenyatta frowns, and it looks wrong on such a gentle face.

[I deserve to know what is being said.] Genji mumbles, drawing attention back to him.

[He is right, Mondatta.]

Mondatta shakes his head, face a near emotionless mask. He has an air of statliness that would be at home in the dragon’s hall, though few ever achieved the effortless grace of Mondatta’s motions. A king, Genji decides, or whatever serves as one. He grimaces.

[Most are not old enough to remember, but the last dragon to take to the skies razed the countryside with its storms.] Mondatta sighs. [However, you are not her. We accept any who seek sanctuary. Rest, and do not cause too much trouble for the prince.]

Mondatta turns in a whisper of robes and chimes, and Zenyatta’s grip relaxes.

“Zenyatta, meet me in an hour’s time in my quarters. I have something important to discuss with you.”

Then the king is gone through the vines and into the moonshine and magic-torched pathways of the village.

[Forgive him. Mondatta means well. He is merely...protective.] Zenyatta says with a smile.

[You are a prince.] Genji narrows his eyes at Zenyatta. He is like no prince he has ever known, nor a noble either. Zenyatta tilts his head at Genji’s glare.

[Not what you expected?] Zenyatta laughs when Genji scowls. [I am no prince of legend. I am just Zenyatta, just as you are Genji.]

[And? What if I am a prince as well? A dragon of legend, a harbinger of doom upon your village?]

Zenyatta laughs, clutching his chin in his mirth. [Oh, how very exciting! So, dragon prince of destruction, I see your reign of terror is proceeding excellently.]

Genji snorts.

[Yes, perhaps I am more cunning than my ancestors, here to woo their prince and strike when you least expect.]

The dragon freezes, but Zenyatta’s giggles fill the silence that might’ve had Genji sputtering. Genji laughs too, after a moment, though it hurts enough to swear. The hand at his shoulder tightens again, urging him against the downy bed.

[I forget myself. It has been years since we have had new visitors.] Zenyatta withdraws his hand. Genji’s shoulder feels chilled in its absence.

[You spoke true. Did you not?] Zenyatta whispers suddenly, eyes glistening in the low light. The mala upon his neck roll and twist in place.

Genji says nothing.

[I dressed you while Mondatta disposed of your old wrappings. Your arm. You are Shimada.]

The dragon’s eyes widen, ringed in viridian, but the power drains as quickly as it came.

[How do you know that name?]

[ We have records that date back thousands of years. When the world was young, and the deer wandered, we knew of you.]

Zenyatta stares at the orb above Genji, eyes growing distant.

[Your secret is safe, as long as you wish to keep it.] Zenyatta says, turning back to him. [However, I have conditions.]

Genji blinks. Zenyatta’s smile returns with a vengeance.

[Speak true. Your bandages. The occupant of the cottage patched you up, correct?]

[Yes.]  Genji says, closing his eyes. [You do not know her. An outsider?]

The dragon misses the way Zenyatta taps his chin.

[Not for long. I had planned to introduce myself before I found you.] He steeples his fingers, and it makes him look much older than the youthful face he wears. [I had a feeling she was friendly. I cannot wait to meet her!]

The orb drifts close, and its warmth washes over Genji’s face, the glow of it seeping through his eyelids before it drifts away again.

[Rest. No harm will befall you here. In fact, I hope to show you around, so please heal quickly.]

Genji groans as Zenyatta’s laughter follows him out the of dwelling.

* * *

Zenyatta stares at the night sky, walking slowly but surely to Mondatta’s quarters. Everything within the village is open, insulated by magic and well-constructed dwellings made from the nooks and branches of ancient trees. He passes a few of his brethren, and he nods and waves, stopping here and there to talk. He has the time, after all, and wants to make sure all is well.

It is peaceful here. Even when disagreements arose, they came together to support each other. As he says goodbye to the last deer and draws close to Mondatta’s quarters, his mind drifts to the edges of the forest where the line of trees gives way to rolling plains. He should not wish to see other lands, not when he has a place here, a duty to his people. Yet still he wonders of the low, sloping hills and their tall grasses, rippling beneath the open sky. 

* * *

When Zenyatta enters Mondatta’s quarters, his back is turned to him. The room is cleanly as always, nothing like Zenyatta’s own, which was littered with inks and quills and piles of parchment. Tidiness was not his strong suit, not when inspiration took hold of him. After such stints, Zenyatta rounds on his brethren and meditates to recenter himself.

“You are early.” Mondatta says with a flat voice.

Zenyatta straightens.

“I did not wish to keep you waiting.”

“You did not wish to tire our new visitor.” He does not sound angry,  but when he turns to face Zenyatta, his shoulders sag.

“It cannot be both?” Zenyatta smiles, but it slips away quickly. “Forgive me if I have overstepped. Genji’s presence weighs on you. I was only trying to—”

“Do what you thought was right. I know.” Mondatta says, managing a small smile, which his brother returns.

The soft blue glow of Mondatta’s room shifts as he approaches. He touches Zenyatta’s face with the tips of his fingers, dragging from cheekbone to chin.

“You still have blood on your face.” Mondatta says, magicking a cloth from a basin in the corner of the room.

Zenyatta cleans himself with a quiet huff of laughter.

“I am sure you looked the spectacle on your way here.”

Zenyatta sends the dirtied cloth back to its place with a flick of magic.

“Come, Mondatta. That is not the worst thing I have been covered in while I walked through the village.” Zenyatta’s smile turns devious, and Mondatta groans, cupping his forehead.

“Please do not remind me.” Mondatta’s smile fades, and a rare tiredness fills his eyes. “I did not summon you for idle chat, though I wish it were the reason.”

His old brother gestures to the seats made of sturdy vine and overgrown moss. They sit, and the discord cloying Mondatta’s aura like a mist steadily builds.

“There is...something amiss.” Mondatta says, staring at his brother with steely eyes. “When you were an infant, our great mother was the confidant of a human queen. Although a child myself, I knew they were quite close, perhaps as close as you and I.”

Zenyatta listens with ears perked. Mondatta rarely spoke of their mother, not even when Zenyatta begged him as a child. The great mother was little more than a feeling to him, warm and gold, the essence all living things, the life force, the well of their harmonious magic. She was their great strength whom had centuries ago coalesced in antlered form, returning to all like a great receding wave when Zenyatta was born.

“I spent my younger years alongside the queen's son. We age differently than humans, and by the time you were old enough to remember, he was a man grown and went to serve among human royalty.”

Mondatta gestures to the intricate silver orb on the table before them. It was one of Mondatta’s own, a permanent fixture for as long as Zenyatta could remember.

“As time passed, I heard from my friend less and less. There was turmoil in the neighboring kingdom which took much of his time. He halted communications altogether several years ago. I had thought that age might have taken him as it takes us all.”

He places his hands on the table, softly but with strange stiffness.

“Until today. The orb activated. It is not a perfect tool, and its connection is attuned to his signal so it will not attract unwanted attention, which makes it weaker still. But it chimed all the same.”

Zenyatta’s eyes widen, staring between Mondatta’s face and the scrying orb.

His brother frowns. “I know not what it means, only that he did not respond to my inquiries. That, and a dragon within our wood for the first time in centuries...perhaps it is an ill omen.”

“We should go to him.”

“It is impossible.” Mondatta replies immediately.

“He may be in need of aid, brother.”

“I know.” Mondatta says, each word hot with a rare show of strong emotion. “I cannot risk it. We are safe here, within the sanctum. If the forest is as vast as you have recorded, we will be able to ready ourselves for whatever the future holds.”

Mondatta raises his hand as Zenyatta starts to speak.

“However, we are operating with too little information. I tell you this so that will you take great care while you survey. I believe your work is important now more than ever.” Mondatta tilts his head down. “We shall wait and form a plan. I will double the patrols and keep the scrying orb on my person, should contact come again.”

“I understand.” Zenyatta says, discord swelling in his chest. Now is not the time to push, especially when Mondatta relaxes at his words.

“Genji may stay for as long as he needs sanctuary. I sense he has endured great hardships, ones that could stoke deep hatred. Please tend him carefully.”

Zenyatta nods, remembering the texture of Genji’s antlers, his widened eyes as they brushed against his own.

“There is rage within him, but that is not the only thing.” Zenyatta murmurs.

Mondatta stands, tilts Zenyatta’s chin up with the side of his finger. He brings their antlers together, and they close their eyes, the familiar comfort of it warming him through.

“I sense this too. I trust in you, Zenyatta. More than I can say.”

“I know it well.” Zenyatta smiles, knocking their antlers together once more before he stands. “I should return to my new charge.”

“Please, before he hauls into the open in a fury of blood and bandages.”

“Oh, that would be quite the sight!”

Mondatta rolls his eyes, waving his brother away as he departs.

He turns back to the orb bundled carefully in a pile of old silk, tracing his finger along the intricate divots he had carved into the metal so many years ago. He closes his eyes, remembers golden hair and bright eyes set into a face that never ceased to smile, wondering if that same face smiled still all these years later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is coming out so slowly. Bogged down with comms and writing other things as always. Your patience is appreciated! <3

****The king stares at all that he has and sighs. The huge keep, the nobles and knights walking the inner ward, the ancient battlements and further: the crowded, rustic homes outside the castle gates. Nothing has changed since his mother’s ascendance to the throne. Everyone has their grievances, their joys, their lives, cared for and protected within the kingdom.

He looks at the oak table beside him, the same one his ancestors had used during their lifetimes, staring at the letter upon it. The message had arrived this morning, wrapped in thin black ribbon and sealed with a sharp claw of dark wax. The handwriting is skillfully printed, cordial even, for the ominous words within.

_Bastard king,_

_You have taken what is mine by blood. I am riding north to reclaim it. Decide how you will be subdued: diplomacy or war. Choose wisely, for there are those who remember the old ways._

There is no signature, but its sender is clear. His scouts confirm what the letter details: an army marches north. A weight settles on his chest like he has not known in years. He had thought, perhaps foolishly, that the southern king had been struck down for good. His claim is fair, but his methods are cruel, and a ruthless man cannot lead, not in peace, not until the world is reduced to ash and reborn in his image.

The king’s eyes pass over the round bundle he had not unearthed since his youth. Ten years? Fifteen? He remembers wide, blue eyes and laughter like chimes, prim and proper, yes, but easily enticed to play, smiling with tiny velveteen nubs angled at him in challenge. The same eyes shining with unshed tears as he left the sanctuary to carry on the burden of his line.

Too late, always the wrong time. Especially now, on the eve of war. Selfish, to think of his past, when he should be thinking of his people. Yet, that stubborn ember refuses to be snuffed, flaring with another, more terrifying notion: the great forest borders both kingdoms.

There is a chance, however slight, that he could contact his old friend, warn him of what may come.

Soon, maybe, but not now. Now, he sends his scouts, the leader a man who walks in the shadows as easily as a ghost, their friendship old and steadfast. He waits and hopes for better news.

But he plans for the worst.

* * *

A tiny pair of antlers pokes through the vines of the doorway. There’s a flurry of whispers in that strange, lilting tone, then two sets of eyes blink owlishly at him, obscured by the early morning sun.

Genji closes his eyes and smiles beneath the bandages as the whispering continues, wishing he had the energy to jump up and give them a scare, something to talk about to their friends. He can barely remember being so young and full of wonder.

A soft voice startles the fauns at the doorway. Its owner leads the smaller of the two in by the hand.

[ They want to say hello. I hope you do not mind. ]

The children lose their nerve inside the dwelling, gripping to Zenyatta’s robes as they near the bed. Genji sits up, grimacing slightly. The orb is powerful, but it has its limits. He must look a mess, bandaged and mostly hidden from view.

The smallest has golden hair and bright green eyes, and they stare with a hand balanced at their mouth. The other is older, with deep bronze skin and deeper eyes who cannot keep the wonder off her face.

[ This is Ganymede and Orisa. ]

Zenyatta crouches, whispering to each.

[ Hello! ] They both say out of sync, nearly yelling and bursting into a bout of giggles.

[ They aren’t afraid of me. ]

[ Should they be? ]

Genji worries his lip.

[ You should greet them in turn. ]

Zenyatta says a soft phrase, and when Genji repeats it, the giggling intensifies.

[ Was it bad? ]

[ About as good as their greeting, I think. ] Zenyatta says with gentle amusement.

Ganymede wiggles onto the cot with childish clumsiness, leaning their face to Genji’s expectantly and closing their eyes. Genji stares for a moment, then smiles. With great care, he brushes his horns to their tiny antlers, and their smile brightens the room.

“My turn!” Orisa bumps much more roughly, making Genji snort. He rubs his head, wincing as all the motion tugs at a deep wound.

“It is time to let Genji rest. Be mindful of the state of others, young ones.”

“Yes, prince.” Orisa says, straightening, taking Ganymede’s hand in her own. Zenyatta gives her a gentle pat between her antlers, and her seriousness fades into glee as they turn to leave.

[ Thank you. ] Zenyatta says as he begins to replace Genji’s wrappings. [ I admit, there are many here who are excited to see a new face. ]

[ Mostly children, I expect ]

Zenyatta hums as he wipes Genji’s arms and back with a damp cloth that smells of warm flowers.

[ Not so. Should an interest in new things be lost on the road to adulthood? ]

Genji ponders his words.

[ Dragons are much more reserved.  There are...expectations. To act outside them is, ] Genji hesitates. [ Not tolerated. ]

Zenyatta stills, though his eyes find Genji’s. [ And did you? ]

The orb circling Genji’s head ripples, a whisper of purple polluting its glow. He should not share so much with a stranger, and a non-dragon besides. Zenyatta knows too much, he is too vulnerable in his care. He stares at the gentle amber of his eyes as the deer begins patting him down with a soft, dry cloth.

Something about Zenyatta makes him want to tell him everything.

[ I did. ] He settles, saying too much but not enough. [ Tell me, prince. How are you so at peace? The burden of your title must weigh on you. You have no attendants, certainly no one to dress you. ]

[ Are you saying I look unrefined? ] Zenyatta smiles and looks down at his robes, as simple as a commoner’s, mostly clean but wrinkled, frayed at the seams.

[ That is not what I mean. I bet you would look princely even in rags. ]

Zenyatta’s face glows with his smile, and Genji’s heart flutters.

[ I am only teasing you. ] He collects his supplies, depositing the dirty rags into a worn basket. [Though we are not so grand as dragons, I am not without responsibilities. To keep my people safe, my brother safe, to ensure the medicine and food will last through the long winters, to ward off those who mean us harm, however few and far between they are...  ] Zenyatta frowns. [ Though I lack guard and servant, it allows a certain closeness to others which relieves much pressure. Less prince, more Zenyatta. My brother is not so informal, but I prefer it. ]

[ Orisa called you prince. ]

[ Traditional, for such a young one. Her sense of justice and kindness is beyond her years. How exciting, to see her grow each day. ] Zenyatta, satisfied with the state of the room, turns back to Genji. [ Her dream is to become a royal guard and protect her people. And what of you, Genji? What is it you wish for? ]

The answer sticks in his throat, ugly and unvoiced, as the vision of his brother surges through his mind: young, smiling, older, furious, with blade and mouth drawn. He closes his eyes, exhales shakily, mounting pain shortening his breath.

A warm and calloused weight settles on his hand; Zenyatta’s fingers curl around his palm, squeezing softly.

Genji, in increments, relaxes. Zenyatta does not leave as he did before, only watches him quietly, sitting on the chair next to the cot.

[ I have tired you. Please, rest. ]

He does, Zenyatta’s subtle presence enough to ease him into sleep in a matter of minutes.

* * *

Genji expects to wake alone as he had done before, as he had done countless times in his youth, even when he had his wealth of lovers. Instead, he wakes to antlers in his vision and the sounds of gentle scratching in his ears. Genji takes a moment to study Zenyatta’s downturned face, locked in concentration as he writes in an old-looking journal, amber eyes tracking along its page.

Genji tries to even his breathing, but Zenyatta smiles, continuing to write even as he speaks.

[ Good evening, Genji. ]

[ Hello, Zenyatta. ]

And Genji half-laughs, half-sighs, and asks Zenyatta what he’s writing.

* * *

The king stares at all that will be his and grins. The rolling flatlands, followers, old and new, outside the open flap of his tent, and in the distant horizon, so far that not even a speck can be seen but its presence foretold like a prophecy, his bloodline’s keep. Everyone has their own reasons to be here, to follow him to their ancestral home and into battle, but he does not care, so long as they are powerful and loyal to his cause.

“The one that can turn the tide is approaching.” His seer tells him, and the king smiles, beckoning her closer as he reclines back on the large, ornate chair that serves as his throne.

“It is time to put our plans into action.” Another voice agrees, and he glances towards the other, staring into her bright, heterochromic eyes.

They have been over the plan many times, but they discuss it once more. The king is a thorough man and does not like a single thing out of place. The northern king is old, wise with years, beloved by his people. It would take nuance to win his people to his side.

It is why he leans on his best, a seer, who knows too much, who speaks the shadow’s whispers and discovers what none should know, and his cleric, unafraid of the forbidden, willing to bypass the mundane rules of the proper to reach new intellectual heights. Powerful in their own ways, unstoppable with him. He does not hope; he acts.

It is only a matter of time.


End file.
